


Until the Sun Goes Down

by DorMarunt



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: (lol sorry), AirPining, Airplanes, Airports, Love, M/M, Paris!, Pining, Smut, Suits, Timelines mean nothing in this shhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27234217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorMarunt/pseuds/DorMarunt
Summary: Before them, at the end of the huge hall, spans a floor-to-ceiling window that’s overlooking some runways. Even though no planes are taking off and only one or two are landing, the view is still breathtaking - green fields with white-rimmed tarmac and an approaching sunset.They both stand for a while, so close to the windows that the air feels cooler but far enough still that no sounds from outside reach them. Martín sits down first, setting his luggage by his chair, and as he looks up to Andrés, he sees him all those years ago, when everything was easy, uncomplicated. When Andrés still wanted him close.- or -Martín and Andrés meet in an airport and look at planes.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 18
Kudos: 58





	Until the Sun Goes Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stilljustbitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilljustbitten/gifts).



> This only exists because of @stilljustbitten, who singlehandedly brought me back into Berlermo after ~two months. I just can't stay away from these idiots in love. <3
> 
> Inspired by the many, _many_ hours I've spent in Charles de Gaulle.  
> (back when this sort of thing was still possible)

Martín is looking at the small case laid out on the foldout chair by the bed. Everything is folded and arranged neatly, all his clothes crisp and fresh from the laundry service, his clean and shiny dress shoes placed in a cloth satchel, with the toiletries placed on top, in that clear bag that all airport security required. 

Orderly, clean, respectable. It makes him angry to look at it, and it’s irrational, he knows. It isn’t just that, the fact that he’s become so adept at living in hotels that he can live for weeks out of one carry-on bag. It’s just-- Sometimes he hates that he has to paint this picture when he travels, when he has to fit in and go unnoticed, because it contrasts with everything he was. The mirror to his left reflects back at him a well-dressed figure in a business-casual suit, shiny shoes, and an elegant carry-on.

That’s not who Martín is. He’s the drunk nerd dancing in bars in Buenos Aires, with no worry in the world beyond his grades, no clue as to where life would take him.

He’s also the waiter with the feather-light fingers that slip into unsuspecting pockets, taking the access card to the safe room and liberating some obscenely expensive jewelry and rehoming it with some very generous new owners.

What he likes most though, is being the one who spends hours upon hours using the knowledge he’s acquired during his - very legitimate - studies, to break into some of the most impenetrable places in the world. 

He’s all of that and more, but he’s not the boring, grey suit that he’s wearing, nor the neatness of his luggage.

  
  


Martín knows that his forger is top-notch and that his papers have gotten him through many security controls, and is sure that they will do it once again, but he can’t help but feel his heart flutter for a second as he’s feeling for his passport in his inside pocket. There’s a large family ahead of him, already in front of the glass partition presenting their papers, so Martín takes a deep breath, centers himself, and calms down until he hears the officer call for him to step up.

“Hello, sir.”

“Bonjour.”

The officer looks at the passport that Martín hands him, then back at Martín, alternating between the photo and the man for a couple of times before putting the document under the UV light. _What the fuck,_ Martín thinks, trying to keep his best poker face, _stop being nervous._

“So what brings you to Paris this fine day?”

It wasn’t a fine day. The winds were terrible, there was terrifying turbulence as his plane landed, it was raining buckets and there were rumors in the air about an airport workers’ strike that afternoon. Not a good day at all, but Martín keeps all of that to himself.

“Business, sadly. I have a connecting flight to Berlin.”

The security officer hums absentmindedly, putting Martín’s plane ticket in his passport and handing them back.

“Next!” 

Martín walks past the booth and into the terminal, and he feels _free._

And terrified.

He hasn’t seen Andrés since that night. _That night._

That night played out in his mind for so many times and yet he hadn’t grown even the slightest bit immune to the memory, it still hurt just like when he was left there, a sobbing mess against that wall. 

Sergio had helped pull him out of the deep spiral he’d thrown himself into; if it wasn’t for him, Martín would probably have gone entirely off the rails. But Sergio reached out, asked for his help on a few jobs, even gave him a few precious tips for future hits. That’s how Martín ended up back in the game, always moving, always seeking new opportunities. That’s how, one evening, he got a call - from Andrés, this time.

“Meet me in Charles de Gaulle.” That was all the detail that Andrés gave over the phone, then sent dates and flight numbers via text a few days later. 

Just like That Night, Martín had no idea what he was getting himself into. 

He looks at his watch - 3:15 PM. Andrés’ flight would land in about an hour, so Martín had some time to lose. The terminal where he’s set to meet Andrés isn’t far, and this time he doesn’t need to take a bus to get there, which he very much prefers. He walks slowly, never on the moving walkways and always close to the big windows, staring out at the airplanes lined outside in the rain. The terminal is grey and quiet, and Martín thinks once more about the possible strike. He goes to one of the many bathrooms peppered along the empty gates and quickly freshens himself up. He raises his chin, studying his old scars, and tries to see any stubble in the pale neon light, but decides that he’s fine. 

He is _not_ ready.

He checks his watch once more - forty minutes left. He’s fine, he looks fine. He looks like any other businessman zapping through countries, living in airports. There’s no laptop in his briefcase, he stays as far away from the internet as he possibly can, but he knows that sitting with a newspaper in his hand makes him just as invisible. He goes to the first red kiosk he can see and buys a copy of _Les Echos,_ then starts walking once more. 

The bright flashing advertisements try to steal his attention but Martín is too deep in his own head to even notice them. He only stops for a minute at one of the information screens, checking again where and when Andrés’ flight will land, and slowly heads to the terminal and gate where they were supposed to meet. He unconsciously grinds his teeth when a small group of armed military go past him, and he actively tries to relax until they all walk past. He knows they’re not there for him, but-- old habits, given his chosen line of work. 

When Andrés’ flight is bound to land, Martín is in front of a huge window, staring at the sky and wondering which one of the planes approaching from above was _the one._

He has no idea what they’ll say to each other or how it will go; frankly, he wasn’t sure why he agreed to meet in the first place, not after the way Andrés hurt him. It took him months, long months drowned in cheap alcohol and faceless bodies, to not feel like he’d explode with rage at the slightest provocation. He was angry for so long, angry at himself for carelessly putting his feelings out there, angry at Andrés for taking his confession, giving him hope, then wrenching it and tossing him away. 

The paper crumples in his fist where he’d squeezed it without even noticing. He’ll never be over that. But then again, he’ll never be over Andrés either; and he’s tried. It’s been ten carefree years, then three miserable ones, and he’s just as deep as he’s been since that first second he laid eyes on Andrés. 

His watch tells him it’s probably ten, fifteen minutes until Andrés gets to their meeting place. Martín can’t sit down so he paces in front of the tall window, eventually getting lost in watching one of the ground crews navigate, through the dense downpour, a double-deck aircraft with uncanny ease and elegance. It’s like a cross between sign language and dance, and the sheer size of that behemoth and how it’s almost tamed by puny people absolutely fascinate Martín. He jumps when he hears that familiar voice.

“Martín?”

He freezes on the spot, and a knot forms in his throat. He turns, and no, he’s absolutely not ready for this.

Andrés is gorgeous.

Andrés always appeared out of place anywhere but in museums and luxurious locations. Anywhere else, especially in places as mundane as an airport, he stood out, effortless elegance and poise, elevating anything and anyone around him. Martín feels drab and plebeian in his sad suit, with his combed-out hair, such a contrast to Andrés who looked like he stepped right out of one of the expensive perfume ads. And thing is, he wasn’t dressed in anything flashy or excessive, he had an elegant coat over a beautifully fitted suit - Martín can’t see it but he knows. _He_ _knows_. It’s not the clothes, it’s the way he stands there, calm, smiling his crooked smile, beautiful, a ray of light against the gray of the day.

Martín realizes with a startling clarity that he’s fucked. 

“Andrés.”

Martín tries to remain calm, to not let the emotions seep out like he feels that they might. The last time he saw Andrés, they both had tears in their eyes and Andrés was walking away, telling Martín to leave. Well, Martín left. As for time healing his wounds? Not a chance. Seeing Andrés again was like ripping open the stitches of a deep cut, all that heartbreak bleeding out all at once and leaving him weak. 

The air is charged, neither of them moves. They both want to say something but right as Andrés opens his mouth, Martín’s attention is gripped by one word that he hears from behind them and, almost instantly, sees painted across all information screens - _grève_. It seems like all the talk of a strike wasn’t just rumors. 

Martín, ever the professional, has to ask.

“Is the job time-sensitive?” When Andrés looks at him, cocking his head in confusion, Martín continues. “All planes are grounded until the strike is sorted out and who knows how long it will be until we finally take off. Should we think of alternative ways to get to Berlin?”

Andrés never gave specifics about the job, only that they’d meet in Charles de Gaulle and fly to Berlin from there. Hazily, Martín remembers that there was a flight from the Orly airport to Berlin - although that was _years_ ago. They could rent a car to Orly--

“No,” Andrés strops his avenue of thought. “Not time-sensitive, it’s fine. I say we wait it out.”

“Alright.”

“Let’s go to a lounge, we can have a proper sit-down and a good cup of coffee until this whole thing ends. I know an Air France lounge nearby.”

For some reason, Martín doesn’t want to go to a lounge. They’re all soulless places in his eyes, and he’d rather not spend long hours in a brightly-lit place, filled with people on their laptops who are trying really hard to not fall asleep when it’s so desperately the only thing they want. So he shakes his head.

“Not a lounge. I know a place, come with me.”

The place Martín thinks of is nowhere near their gate. In fact, it’s in the next terminal over. This time, Martín takes the moving walkways, walking along at a slow pace, feeling the need to apologize for his choice of location despite the fact that Andrés wasn’t complaining.

“I swear, this place is as big as a city. But we’re almost there.”

It isn’t a lounge, where Martín took them, not at all. It has no amenities, no coffee - free or otherwise - and the seats, while padded, are still hard and uncomfortable. It doesn’t matter though, the journey was worth it. Before them, at the end of the huge hall, spans a floor to ceiling window that’s overlooking some runways. Even though no planes are taking off and only one or two are landing, the view is still breathtaking - green fields with white-rimmed tarmac and an approaching sunset. 

They both stand for a while, so close to the windows that the air feels cooler but far enough still that no sounds from outside reach them. Martín sits down first, setting his luggage by his chair, and as he looks up to Andrés, he sees him all those years ago, when everything was easy, uncomplicated. When Andrés still wanted him close.

Andrés takes a seat right beside him and it doesn’t feel like he thought it would. 

“This is beautiful, Martín. Thank you.”

Andrés was oddly quiet, oddly kind, and this only served to make Martín prickle more. He hoped that Andrés would come to him, and he feels cheated and cheap that it’s all for a job. When he’s satisfied that there’s no one in earshot, he looks at Andrés.

“So what about this job made you think of me? I remember you said that _‘this’_ was impossible. What changed?”

“I didn’t die.”

“What?”

“I didn’t die,” Andrés repeated like it would make more sense the second time he said it. It didn’t. “Helmer's Myopathy. I was diagnosed five years ago, and--”

“You said nothing to me. Does Sergio know? Are you okay?”

“I told Sergio and Tatiana, but that’s it.”

Tatiana. Oddly enough, Martín liked her. He didn’t like the fact that Andrés married her; it hurt, it hurt more than any of his previous marriages did. They worked so well together, and Martín saw in her a possible end to what he and Andrés had, just— Just not the way it happened. So when Sergio let it slip that they had divorced, merely three months into their marriage, Martín felt a grain of hope that maybe— Maybe Andrés would reach out to him. But it hadn’t happened. The call he got not a week ago was the first he’s heard from Andrés since that night in the chapel.

“I’m sorry about Tatiana,” He feels like he has to say it, but he means it too. Loving someone, after all, means you want them safe from heartbreak.

“It’s fine. It wouldn’t have worked out. I thought she was-- I thought she could be something that I was looking for, but she wasn’t. She couldn’t be.”

Martín nods. Andrés was an expert at that, at getting married - as well as at getting divorced. So whatever reason he might have had, it was surely a good one.

“The illness was progressing so fast, Martín.” Andrés isn’t looking at him, he’s looking at the runways outside, at the airplanes frozen on the tarmac. 

"Sergio found a clinical trial and signed me up, that’s what kept it in check. By their initial calculations, I should have died two years ago. I didn’t. Not only that, but the illness regressed enough that I’m not even on daily medications anymore.”

“Oh. That’s… good?” Martín tries, but the whole thing is so much to take in that he can’t even gauge if it’s the right thing to say.

“And I realized,” Andrés hesitates for a beat before taking Martín’s hand in his, and Martín startles at the touch, the warmth, “one day when I was coming back from one of my visits, I realized that I’ve done it all wrong; I thought there would be dignity in facing this alone. There wasn’t. And that’s fine, from a certain point your flesh becomes just flesh, and you stop caring about what’s happening to it. I fought tooth and nail for my life, out of sheer spite; and as soon as there was the possibility to live, I hung onto that. I never fought for you. I should have.” Andrés is ducking his head, seeking Merin’s eyes and he relents. He’s staring back in Andrés’ eyes and the rawness in them scares him. “The way I treated you was inexcusable.”

Martín imagined this conversation in many ways, over the years. This was the time when he usually exploded, frustration and rage and determination, spitting venom, seeking to match hurt for hurt. Now, in the middle of it, the conversation real and inescapable, he found that he couldn’t do it. 

“I’m sorry, Martín. I know there are no words to excuse the damage I undoubtedly caused, but please know that I’m sorry. I didn’t need to--” His shoulders raise and somehow the whole magic of Andrés, the formidable man, dulls for a second. “I didn’t mean to cause you so much pain. I _did_ mean it when I said that I love you. I did then, and-- and I do now.”

It doesn’t feel like that first time, when Andrés’ superlatives - _extraordinary, unique, marvelous_ \- carved themselves deep in Martín’s heart. It feels nothing like that first declaration. It doesn’t put butterflies in his stomach; it bubbles, deeper, into a simmering rage. It passes like a devastating tornado that avoids the town at the last minute.

“What about that tiny mitochondria?”

Andrés puffs, scoffing.

“You were right about bravery, back then. But I have it now. Do you want to try again?”

It was all Martín ever wanted, really - a chance, a _real_ chance. He should maybe be more careful with his heart, and yet-- just like he always knew he would, he caves in. He nods.

Andrés doesn’t gloat, doesn’t beam confidently, doesn’t push to take. He leans forward almost hesitatingly, and Martín naturally comes up to meet his lips and it’s nothing like the kisses they shared in the chapel. That urgency is gone, there’s no more cat and mouse game, it’s just the two of them discovering each other, asking for and receiving forgiveness in the press of lips and the unuttered volumes it spoke.

“You know what else I realized, one of those days in the clinic? When I had IV lines and monitors and charts; when everything was sterile and full of hollow hope. I realized that even if I got better, even if I lived, even if I went back to creating the most beautiful plans, none of it mattered. And I tried, you know. Surely you know. I tried, out of pride and embarrassment and regret; I tried to prove myself that I’d taken the right decision, that night when I pushed you away. I hadn’t. Turns out, Martín, that you were the key to making everything that I loved matter. Because you; you, I love the most. Without you, none of it means anything.”

It’s hard to not speak, but he tries. Instead, Martín rips his eyes from Andrés’, letting them roam out the window. Night was approaching, painting pink and purple against the darkening blue of the sky. There was no movement on the tarmac, the planes remaining, minuscule and static, where they sat. A young couple came to the window in front of them, holding hands while they looked outside. They came and left, other people took their place, the man sat a few seats beside them got up and left as well, other seats were occupied by other travelers. Neither Martín nor Andrés spoke, but Andrés didn’t let go of his hand, and Martín didn’t push it away either.

Time passed, the night sky settling in with darker hues. Without warning - or maybe there had been warnings but it was hard for Martín to notice since he was almost dozing off, leaning into Andrés’ side - lights come up on airplanes’ wings and tails, blinking and moving along the runway before ascending. 

It takes a few minutes after the planes start taking off again for Martín to perk up.

“Our flight! I’ll go see where--”

“Let’s sit here for a bit more?”

“But we’ll miss out flight.”

“I don’t care. Let’s get out of the airport, let’s just rent a car and spend a couple of nights in Paris.”

“But-- the job. You still haven’t told me anything about it.”

“Martín,” Andrés takes his chin in his hand, turning Martín’s face away from the window. “There was never any job. I had to see you. I had to talk to you.”

“Oh,” Martín nods, slowly. “Then let’s just stay here a little bit more.”

“Until the sun goes down?”

“Until the sun goes down.”

It feels like he’s a different person than he was a mere few hours ago. Earlier the same afternoon, Martín sat on a similarly uncomfortable seat, looking through a similarly vast window, at similar-looking planes. He is the same person, except— he is _more,_ now. Now, he has Andrés’ love; he has Andrés. So now, as he’s sitting on that uncomfortable seat, his head is resting on Andrés’ shoulder; as he’s looking through that vast window, he squeezes Andrés’ fingers into his own, and as he’s looking at the planes, Andrés is looking with him. 

The majority of the people have moved to their gates, continuing their journeys, it was only the two of them left on that row of seats, looking out through the giant window. Planes took off, slicing through the air and disappearing into clouds, only to be followed by others, rolling slowly on the tarmac, stopping for a few minutes before taxiing and suddenly separating from the ground. It was beautiful, hypnotic even, to watch their dark shape fly away even as night-time took over and all they could make out was faint blotches with flickering lights. 

When the night settles and the crowd ebbs and flows around them, Andrés wakes him from his drowsy state with a soft kiss on his temples that Martín chases until their lips meet, and he melts in the arms that wrap around him. 

“Let’s go,” Andrés says softly and gets up, offering Martín his hand. Just like he did the first time, thirteen years ago, Martín takes it. He suspects he always will.

They zap through the luggage claim - carry-on luggage only, _suckers_ \- and right past passport control. Now that Andrés is by his side, Martín feels oddly unburdened, unworried. Even the car rental moves quickly, and before long, Andrés is behind the wheel and Martín rests his head against the window, taking in the beauty of Paris at night. 

They end up in some beautiful hotel, and Andrés - naturally - goes for one of the expensive suites. They take the elevator to their floor in silence and Martín wonders for the first time how the rest of the night would go.

They’re both exhausted, physically and emotionally, so it goes like this: room service, shower, brushing his teeth. Martín stares at the bed where Andrés waits for him under the covers, placing down the book that he was reading until Martín stepped out of the bathroom.

It’s been a long day, heavy with so much emotion, that they both fall asleep pretty quickly, entangled and heated as they were after having kissed hungrily, half-hidden by the warm sheets.

When Martín opens his eyes, it takes him a second to realize where he is - and feels an electric tingle rush through him when he remembers. He turns to see Andrés asleep behind him, his face soft and peaceful. He gets up, slowly, and goes to relieve himself and to brush his teeth. He putters around the suite for a bit, deciding that he won’t have coffee without Andrés, and he eventually gives up and gets back in bed.

He wakes again when the bed dips, and he sees Andrés kneeling right beside him, wearing only the fluffy white robe and a smile.

Andrés doesn’t have to say anything, he doesn’t need words; Martín understands from his eyes. He reaches out, drawing Andrés down and into a kiss. 

“This time you’ll stay?” Martín asks and hopes that he doesn’t sound as needy as he does in his head. He _is_ needy, though, that’s the truth, and it should be understandable. He’s gone through the aftermath of Andrés’ cruelty before and isn’t sure that he can do it again. 

“I’ll stay for as long as you’ll want me.”

And when they kiss again, Martín feels light-headed, a little bit high. He unwraps Andrés out of his bathrobe, undoing the knot, pushing the robe open and off his shoulders and is delighted and a little bit surprised to find that Andrés is naked under it, his skin still warm from the shower. That’s all the confirmation Martín needs that Andrés wants this too. 

With careful moves but no words, Andrés removes Martín’s tee and his sweats and only hesitates for a second before pulling the briefs off as well, and Martín lays there, naked and flushed and nervous. For all the bravery he felt that night, that awful night in the chapel when he went in for that kiss, it’s all gone now, but just like that time, Andrés takes the lead. 

It’s Andrés that lays on top of him, kissing him breathless, it’s him who touches Martín’s cock, giving it a few strokes before looking down, his eyes wide with wonder, it’s still him who presses his own cock against Martín’s before wrapping them both in his palm. Martín is usually not shy about this, quite the opposite, but in that moment, caught in Andrés’ palm, grinding against him-- he can’t think, he can’t act. All he can do is to fuck in the palm holding them both, to hang on and hope that Andrés isn’t nearly as mentally broken as he is. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to be.

“I want to fuck you,” Andrés says, eyes dark with want, and it’s the rawness of it, the rudeness that makes Martín feel the words in his gut. And, sure, he’s imagined this bit, quite a few times, but hearing it out loud from Andrés’ mouth? He flushes deeply at the words and their promise, and the implausibility of their certainty.

“Are you sure? I don’t have any--” Martín shakes his head, still wondering if it’s all really happening, if it’s not some fever dream, if he isn’t maybe in a hospital somewhere, in a coma, and this is all in his head.

“I am, and _I_ do,” says Andrés, who’s letting go of their erections and pushing up on his knees, acting like it wasn’t an offense what he just did. Martín’s cock twitches. He has to lift his bum so Andrés can tug at the bathrobe that had gotten pinned under his thigh, and from a pocket, he takes out a condom and one of those packs of lube that Martín usually hates - they’re messy, they’re wasteful, they’re never _quite_ enough. Martín snatches the packet of lube.

“Have you done this before?”

“With a man?” Andrés asks and Martín feels stupid at the sudden realization that while Andrés may not be an expert a _t this,_ he still knew what he was doing. 

“Yes with a man.”

Andrés shakes his head. “I thought about it, but I realized - I don’t care about other men. It’s just you. I only want you.”

 _But are you really sure,_ Martín still feels like asking, even if he may be sabotaging his chances; he needs to know, he needs Andrés to be sure. _Boom boom ciao_ \- sure. Ten times out of ten for Martín, it was boom-boom, than ciao. This time, it was a tentative hello, but then the _boom_ , it would certainly be his heart exploding in a thousand little pieces if they had to say ciao at the end. Martín pushes at Andrés’ shoulders until he understands and lets himself be guided, unfolding his feet and laying back. Martín straddles him. He sits on his haunches and looks down at Andrés - beautiful and smiling and so god-damned hard.

“We don’t have to do this, there’s lots of other things we can-- And we have all the time in the world for this.” He really hopes that they do.

“Don’t you want it?” Andrés is getting up on his elbows, looking uncertain.

“I don’t have the words to express how much I want this, I was, uh-” Martín doesn’t really know what he was thinking. It’s hard to think when Andrés looks at him like that, and when Andrés’ cock is right there, leaking against his belly. “I was thinking of that whole ‘desire’ spiel of yours. And I’d ask again where your desire is--”

“In here,” Andrés takes one of Martín’s hands and places it on the center of his chest, where Martín can feel his heartbeat. “It’s right here.” 

Martín bursts into laughter, and Andrés is a little confused, a little hurt.

“I mean, yeah, but I was thinking a bit lower,” Martín stares, rudely, at Andrés’ dick, and he gets his hand swatted away from Andrés’ chest.

“Fuck you,” Andrés says, uncharacteristically offended.

“That seems to be where we are headed, yeah.”

“You don’t seem sure.”

“I am plenty sure. I’m sure I want this, I’ve imagined this so many times it’s embarrassing - not the number, the sheer _variety_ of the scenarios - and I’d hazard to say that you want this too, it’s just-- I need a moment, okay?” That’s not all he needs, though. “And I need to know that if we’re doing this, I won’t end up again like. Like before.”

“Shit, Martín. I’m sorry--” Andrés tries to sit up but no, Martín pushes him back down, pinning him under his body. He’s just a little shorter than Andrés but it doesn’t matter, he drapes all of himself over all of Andrés, bony knees and hips digging into each other.

“I love you,” says Martín, kissing gently across Andrés’ jaw, leaning back when Andrés tries to catch his lips in a kiss. “I love you and I want you to know that if you ever do that again I’ll-- I’ll fucking kill you, okay?” He’s smiling but he means it too.

Andrés laughs, softly. “Fair enough.” Then, again, “I’m sorry.”

Martín thought he was putting on a show, getting himself open like that, leaning back against Andrés’ legs, his knees spread wide and a sly smile painted on his face. He thought he was in control precisely until Andrés’ hand touched his erection, and his easy smile froze into a silent moan. 

“So tell me,” Andrés manages in too even a voice for what he’s doing, “what _did_ you imagine all those times and in such a wide variety of ways?”

“Uhh,” Words don’t come easily for Martín, not when he’s two-fingers deep in his own ass and Andrés’ hand moves on his dick, but he gives Andrés’ hand such a pleading look that he understands and stops touching him. He breathes out a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding. “There was a fair bit of this,” he says, pointing around him.

“This?”

“Beds. Often I imagined you took me against a wall,” the wall of that fucking chapel, not that he’d ever admit that out loud, “or bent me over the back of that couch we had back when we lived in Madrid; remember?” That couch. That gaudy, red cloud that was so soft and so uncomfortable that they preferred to sit against the backrest. Andrés would lean against it for hours, caught in some book or other, while Martín had all his books and papers spread out in front of him, half on the small balcony, half on the floor of the room where he sat, cross-legged. Andrés looked so imposing like that, and never seemed to notice that Martín would forget himself staring at him like that and imagining--

“That red monstrosity?” 

Martín nods. He’s well past flushing now.

“You’d bend me over the back of it, pull my pants down and fuck me right there. Or against that huge mirror in your bedroom. I know car sex is a terrible idea, but in the back of that old Royce we stole? We’d make it work.”

“And how would we do that?”

“The roof seems deceptively low, but I could fit very well in your lap, and I would ride you until you’d forget every word that isn’t my name.”

Andrés seems to be well on his way there. 

Martín decides that he’s ready, so he pushes up and starts patting the sheets around them for the condom. When he finally finds it, he takes it out and rolls it on Andrés's cock, using whatever lube was on his fingers to slick him more. He’s not ready, he realizes the second the head of Andrés’ cock presses inside him, and he has to take it slow, torturously slow, until he’s fully seated. When he catches his breath again and nods, Andrés takes over, and Martín’s the one losing his ability to speak.

Martín can’t even pretend he’s helping, he’s letting Andrés fuck him at a pace that leaves him unable to do more than to hang on. He’s not expecting it when Andrés pushes him back and his knees - fuck, he’s almost forty and he’s nowhere near limber enough for that maneuver - but he falls back, rearranging himself, and Andrés’ cock slips out but it pushes right back in when his back hits the mattress and it’s hot and slick and hard, and Martín sobs at the feeling. 

Andrés fucks him, deep and slow, and every drag of his cock inside him makes him edge even closer to that precipice. It’s quiet in the light of the morning, it’s just their breath in counter-tempo, and the slapping of their skin, and Martín is hit with just how desperately he loves that man. The fact that Andrés loves him back, it makes everything brighter. 

He has to pry Andrés’ head up from his shoulder, to hold it between his palms and look him as he tells him, once again, “I love you.” He’ll never get tired of saying it, of hearing it out loud instead of only in his mind. 

Not long after that, when Andrés has forgotten _all_ the words and is so far beyond the point of no return, Martín comes, clear between their bodies, and Andrés’ buries himself deep, holding himself there with a shudder. They come down together, breathing each other’s air, sweat cooling off on their flushed skin. 

“The mirror above the sink is pretty big,” says Andrés, “if you want to give that a try before we leave.”

They do head to the bathroom together, and even though that mirror is used by Martín, a little later, it’s only to shave.

When Martín comes out of the bedroom, all ready for an afternoon out, Andrés is waiting for him on the balcony, looking out at the city. Martín joins him, catching his own reflection in the glass doors as he walks past them. He sits back against the railing, and Andrés turns to him with that beautiful smile of his, the one that Martín feels lighting up his chest.

“What now?”

“Now? Let’s go have lunch, and then we’ll see the city. I want to kiss you on top of the Eiffel Tower. I want to kiss you on the Champs-Élysées, and on every one of the bridges over the Seine. And then I want to take you back here and make love to you again.”

Martín smiles, kissing him on that hotel balcony first.

“That sounds like one of your best plans so far.”

Andrés looks at him and right there, seeing his own reflection by Andrés’, he doesn’t feel like he did the previous day in that depressing hotel room. He feels confident and commanding, maybe a little bit handsome too, and he doesn’t know if it’s just the effect of getting caught in Andrés’ orbit, in his shine, but Martín doesn’t care anymore. He is precisely where he wants to be. 

**Author's Note:**

> I may have taken some liberties with the timeline regarding Andres' illness. Shhhh.
> 
> Also - first Berlermo after two months! This was written in three days, who even am I anymore.


End file.
